


like a thursday

by simplecoffee



Category: Top Gun (1986), Top Gun: Maverick (2020)
Genre: Angst, Don't Ask Don't Tell, F/M, Grief, M/M, Past Maverick/Iceman, Queer Characters, So much angst, Top Gun: Maverick Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23324872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplecoffee/pseuds/simplecoffee
Summary: Hey, you get dumped or somethin'? I won't tell.
Relationships: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Unnamed TG:M Love Interest, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	like a thursday

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you spend years saying you'll never write a certain thing, and then there's a Top Gun 2 trailer and then this happens.
> 
> (Most of this was written before the interviews that implied we know who Jennifer Connelly's character is.)

The man has a look about him. He's polite, quiet, picks a table at the back and sits alone. Sticks to bourbon all evening, orders with a friendly smile, and tips more than the minimum but not extravagantly; a standard 'don't notice me' move. She keeps an eye on him anyway.

It's Thursday night - not quite prime time for folks from the airbase to flood in. The new batch of kids at the flight school won't begin to arrive for another few days, and visiting personnel don't often end up at her bar. She knows the regular officers, most by sight, some by name, and as with civilian patrons, she knows the cuts and colours they come in. Most are predictable down to the minute; some down to the dime. Some keep her guessing.

The signs of a wild card are universal, if on the down-low tonight. He looks around him keenly, taking everyone in, eyeing up the pool tables with the spark of someone looking for a hustle, glancing at the dodgier, beefier patrons with the edge of someone looking for a fight. There's always one or two like him, though they're usually younger, the grim little ones with their fists at the ready, the ones on the dance floor roving in search of any kind of touch at all. The ones that look like they could charm, if they wanted to. The ones that look like more trouble than they're worth.

That's what Captain Bomber-Jacket over there looks like: more trouble than he's worth.

She listens for trouble. She's learned it comes with the territory. She works the counter with Steph, keeps an ear on the girls' chatter as they come and go, takes stock of the clientele from time to time. Stays aware of the man in the corner as the hours tick by in classic-rock minutes, nice and easy, like Thursdays do.

She'd have pegged him for a noisy drunk, a crowd-pleaser. A flirt, maybe. Instead, when the alcohol starts to dull him, he retreats into the shadows, fades into the furniture, the energy about him starting to still. The girls have no hassles with their sections of the floor, no incidents pop up that call for her attention, and she sings along to Aerosmith while shaking cocktails and lets him flicker off her radar, lets herself let it go and call it good.

It's a quiet night. It stays quiet. She puts Amy to bed with a story at half past ten, skips back downstairs to _Rock You Like A Hurricane_ , kicks her shoes off and lets her hair down as the late-night regulars settle in. The Scorpions turn up in the shuffle three more times, Fleetwood Mac two - sometimes she keeps score - before the shift is out.

Sandy points him out at closing time.

Somehow, she's not surprised to see him again. She is surprised to find that, this time, he gives her pause. Something about him strikes differently as the lights come up, as Steph cuts Joan Jett off mid-word behind them into ringing silence; something feels familiar in a way it didn't when he walked in. He stays still, his head bowed; doesn't move a muscle except to run a finger along the lip of his glass, again and again and again. Doesn't seem to know quite where he is, or hear them talking, hear Bob offering none too gently to show him the door. 

She shakes her head at that bit. She doesn't think he's all the way lost. She has a feeling he knows how to stop right on the edge of getting there. He could be dangerous, she thinks as she studies the slope of his shoulders from across the room, but not to strangers, not to civilians, not to a kind word. Not tonight.

It's been a while, but she's been on both sides of that bridge. She's learned it comes with the territory. Sometimes you wind up tending to other, deeper things while tending bar.

So she lets the girls clean up. She makes her way over to the corner, and slides a glass of water across the table to him.

"We're closing, Captain," she says gently.

He takes a moment to respond. She lets him stare at her hand and the glass, lets him lift his head and blink up at her with surprisingly guileless eyes. He looks strained, up close. 

"Oh," he says, voice hoarse with disuse and slowly clearing. "Yeah. Sorry. Thanks."

"You got anybody to drive you home?"

"- Oh." He's surprised to be asked, and just too far gone to think to hide it. "I'll make it home, ma'am. It's okay."

There's a motorcycle parked outside. She can't tell if he intends to ride it drunk; doesn't want to pry. Doesn't want to find out by watching him leave. She nudges the glass of water at him again; this time he carefully takes it, and drinks. 

"I haven't seen you around these parts before," she says.

"I haven't been around these parts in a long time."

"Sure there's not somebody I can call for you?"

He smiles, bitter, still polite. "God, no."

The girls and Bob are leaving; the captain doesn't notice. She takes the seat across from him, feels his gaze drop from her, fade from the rest of the world for a second or two. Something makes her press on when he doesn't speak again.

"Hey," she says, flicking his hand, going for friendly humour. "Hey, you get dumped or somethin'? I won't tell."

It works, in a way: it gets a laugh. Sudden, soft, almost choked, his eyes falling shut as he swallows the rest of it, like he tried to speak and couldn't, tried to think and couldn't. It's a laugh that hits her hard. A laugh she realizes with a sinking feeling that she might know all too well. 

"I wish," he says quietly, when they can both breathe again.

 _Christ_ , she thinks, and then, _Sammie_ , and then _please, no. Let me be wrong_.

"Is it a significant date for you?" It's out of left field, intrusive, abrupt, but she needs to know. It could be. Lord knows she's been... It could be. "An...anniversary? Something happen?" _Will something happen if I let you go?_

He shakes his head, slowly. It's more than she deserves, perhaps. He glances up exhaustedly, then back down, suddenly looking older, nearer the age he probably is; tilts his empty glass against the table, back and forth, then again, back and forth. "You've lost someone, too."

She doesn't ask how he can tell. Doesn't consider for a moment that she could refuse to answer him.

"I've lost someone," she tells him, heart a deadweight in her chest. "She was everything to me."

He stops fidgeting, and looks at her. Holds her gaze for the first time with all trace of polite convention gone, all trace of apology-for-the-inconvenience gone, and nothing but a world of devastation in his eyes.

"She," he says, quietly. And then, "I'm sorry."

She fights the urge to touch the finger where her wedding ring used to be. Runs that hand through her hair instead, blinks firmly before forging on.

"My wife died from cancer," she says. "Three years ago. She was sick for two years before that. Our daughter barely remembers her, but I miss her every damn day. I'm sorry for your loss, Captain."

"I'm sorry for yours." He's still looking at her, tortured, when she lifts her eyes to his again. "That's - three years. God, that's not long."

That's the kicker, isn't it? It's not long at all. She still knows what Sammie's face looked like when she was happy, before all the tubes. Still sees her dimples in Amy's cheeks, her Cupid's bow on Amy's lips. Remembers her on their wedding day. "Was your partner a man?"

He pauses for a moment to take a breath, eyes burning blue, and she has her answer. He gives her another anyway; fumbles for the lapel on his jacket and shows her a single patch among several, the one that sits closest to his heart.

"This is his squadron patch," he says, voice almost shaking, but not quite. "I've worn it since the morning Don't Ask, Don't Tell was repealed. Nine years, now - ten since he was KIA. It's against regulations, but - this is the one rule I've broken for which no one's taken me to task."

She'd believe it. He lets his jacket fall back into place, and sighs. "Would you punch their lights out if they did?"

He smiles bitterly. "Might do it anyway."

She'd believe that, too. It's what he brought to the bar this evening, what she saw in the way he walked. It clings to him still, softened by the booze, tempered by pain in the silence between them.

"What brings you to town?" she says finally.

He shakes himself back to earth, again. "Oh - oh, flight school. Teaching. It's nothing strange, it shouldn't be, it's just - we taught together, it's not supposed to be this way, y'know? It's where we met, even. Same flight school down California way, back in '86. He won the plaque."

"Top of his class?"

"The best of the best. God, I wanted it so bad." He smiles again, warmer, sweeter, eyes gleaming a little too bright. "He deserved it, though. He always did. Kept trying to convince me winning isn't everything, and then he'd go ahead and win every time, the bastard." 

She returns his smile, this time; watches him try to be subtle when he brushes a hand across his eyes. Wonders just how flat a _thank you both for your service_ would fall.

"Sammie loved Formula One," she offers quietly instead. "She'd try to explain the scores to me every season, and every season I'd - I'd pretend to finally get it. We'd watch the races from her hospital room; Vettel won the night she died. I can't stand the sight of his face any more."

He nods in silent understanding; offers no comforting cliché. Takes a moment to realize it when she reaches for his wrist; flips his hand when he does, to hold hers gently in turn. When he speaks again, it's with deep resolve, sounding for the first time like a soldier.

"We were shot down," he says. "Location: classified. Details: classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." He offers her a grim smile, an inside joke she's not privy to. "He was hit. We were both hit. He bailed - not soon enough. Second round of fire got him in the side before he hit the ground, and he bled to death in my arms."

She grants him the courtesy he did her: she gives him no platitudes, no positive spins. Holds his wrist closer through the leather of his jacket, and lets him talk himself out.

"I did the same thing he did," he says next, grave, confessional, sorrow-laced. "Stayed in that cockpit as long as I could so I could get all my missiles away, shoot the sons of bitches that were shooting at us. I should have died, too. Or should've died saving him - god, that's so stupid. That's so stupid, wishing for glory." He shakes his head, pats her arm with his free hand. "He got his Purple Heart, we both did, I accepted his for him - they let me. It's no use wishing - God, you were married."

She blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"You were married," he repeats, like it's only just struck him. "That's - she was your wife. You got to have that. I'm glad you did."

She squeezes his wrist. "We got married the moment we could. The day it was legal. So many of us did."

"I know," he says. "God, I know. Tell me about it. I never thought I'd care for...a piece of paper, a ceremony, but Ice did - we talked about it. Ceremony was his life. Part of being an officer, I'm a - " he breaks off to laugh, almost silently. "I'm a maverick, that way. I didn't mind. But it hurt him that we couldn't even say anything, couldn't be a couple out loud - so I promised him, I said we'd make it official as soon as we could, that I wouldn't even embarrass him by singing to him or hitting on him during. - But then he got shot, and we could've gotten married not even a whole year later, and now I'm back in Fallon talking your ear off about it in your own damn bar." 

She finds it in herself to catch his eye and smile softly at him, feels how full of pain it is, how fragile on her face. "You're very drunk, Captain, I think you can be excused."

He bites his lip slightly to keep from smiling back, but looks, however briefly, genuinely amused. "Well shit, ma'am, I'm sorry. I don't even like bourbon."

"I hadn't pegged you for a bourbon guy."

"It was never my poison of choice." He gestures vaguely, bittersweetly, around them. "Old times' sake, though, right? Fallon. Taught here with Ice for six years back in the day, now I'm going back in alone. He was always the classier of us two - you'd have liked him. Everybody liked him." He nods, repeats it softly under his breath, "Everybody liked him."

"That's what we always say, right?" she says, thinks of Sammie's parents, whom she's never met. "They were the world. They meant the world. Everybody should have liked them, even if they didn't."

He looks up at her again, coughs a sob that he almost - almost - swallows in time. There's little subtlety to it now, so little left in him but weariness, and she knows that look from the mirror, knows it from Sammie before they fell in love, knows it from queer friends who spent their whole lives closeted, going it alone.

"I've taken too much of your time, ma'am," he says. "I should leave. I'm sorry."

She makes her decision. She stands up, and while he tries to find his feet, she crosses the table and sits next to him, places her hands on his shoulders as he turns to face her. When his eyes catch up to her movements, she presses a kiss to his lips.

He looks stunned for a moment, like he's frozen in place, like he's not sure how to breathe any more. But then he leans forward and kisses her back. A little clumsily - god, he's so drunk - but softly, with attention, like it means something. Cupping her face with a gentle brush of his fingers, before she takes his hands in her own. When they break away, she can feel the tears falling down her cheeks, see the ones spilling across his eyelashes despite his efforts to blink them aside.

"I wish I could say something to help," she tells him, and he swallows and shakes his head as she takes a breath to go on. "I mean that, Captain. I really do. But sometimes nothing helps."

He raises a hesitant hand to her arm, tugs on it with a feather-light touch. She follows, pulling him close, and lets him gently fold his arms around her shoulders in return, like she's a precious, molten thing, like they're two people who tried their best and somehow lived to tell.

"Yeah," he says into her hair. "Sometimes nothing helps. I wish I could promise it gets easier, but I can't. I'm sorry."

Against her better judgement, she lets him go. He walks okay for someone who's been drinking all night; tries to wipe his eyes on his leather jacket, which goes less well. She offers, for the third time, to call somebody for him. 

"Please don't bother, ma'am," he says. "There's no one to answer. I'll get to base. I've been more trouble than I'm worth already."

"Hey, it's all right," she tells him, takes a sheaf of napkins from the table and splits it in two, offers him half, as though he'll need that many - as though _she'll_ need that many. "You should maybe get cleaned up before you go."

He accepts them, laughs quietly through another half-sob. "Thanks."

"Oh, one last thing," she says as it occurs to her - "we've only just met. What's your name, Captain?"

"Oh," he says, like he didn't think of it either, and fumbles awkwardly with his jacket pocket, finally drawing out a Velcro strip that would fit on the lapel. He holds it up to her, for a quiet moment; it reads MAVERICK.

"Wasn't kiddin'," he says with a smile that's easy, like a Thursday; that reminds her, of a sudden, just how pretty he is. "Mav for short. Thank you, ma'am. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mav," she says, gives him a smile of her own, and watches him blot his face with the entire pile of tissues she gave him as he leaves.

He didn't ask her name, she realizes as she blots her own. She figures that's all right. It's what the neon sign over her door reads, after all.

And hey, he's left his beast of a motorcycle in the parking lot. Amy's gonna love looking at that thing in the morning.


End file.
